Shades of Grey
by Georgia Goat
Summary: A chronicle of Snape’s and the Marauder’s lives from their last two years at Hogwarts to shortly after Harry’s birth, from a Slytherin’s point of view. Read & Review!
1. Chapter 1

AN: I wrote this chapter three times (horrible luck with floppy disks). I hope you enjoy it. Don't forget to review! I'm looking for a beta, by the way.

I don't have an avenger complex; I don't want attention (after five years at Hogwarts, most people still don't have any idea who Lucy Cole is, and I'm rather proud of that.) I don't have a personal vendetta against the Marauders, nor do I particularly like Snape, so I don't know why I did it.

It's not my fault. James Potter started the whole thing with his oh-so-amusing new spell. If he'd have just pulled his head out of his rectum for a few moments, I could have remained in happy anonymity.

I can blame it on Lily Evans, too. If she's going to start a 'look at me, I am the angel of justice and righteousness' campaign against her beleaguered charge's wishes, the least she could do is follow through with it. But _no_, Her Evanescence had to protect her pride, just like Snape had to defend his.

"What is it with her?" Potter asked conceitedly as Evans pranced off.

"Reading between the lines, I'd say she thinks you're a bit conceited, mate," Sirius Black said. I suppressed a snort.

"Right," Potter said furiously, "right—"

A flash of light later, Snape was upside down again.

"Who wants to see me take off Snivelly's pants?"

I forced all of the very dirty thought out of mind and waited for my opportunity. Potter took a step towards Snape and…fell flat on his face. That was my doing, although I hoped nobody saw me.

Snape fell, too, but he was a lot quicker Potter. He was on his feet, had his wand, and had disarmed Potter and Black before James managed to pull his deadweight off the lawn.

He stood up slowly, looking very comical. His eyes were crossed to look at the tip of Snape's wand, pointed at his nose, and his fall had smudged the blood on his cheek. Then he smirked superciliously, which did nothing to improve his looks, as he was still cross-eyed.

Standing in the front doorway of the school was Professor Atwater. I don't like to talk bad about my professors, but Atwater is the slimiest, evilest, most favorite-playing, most arrogant, most unbelievably and undeniably awful teacher in Hogwarts ever. He plays favorites with the Gryffindors, of which he is head, makes unfair calls at Quidditch, and takes any and all opportunities to take points from Slytherin. Besides which, he's stoop-shouldered and walks like an ape.

"Snape!"

Snape turned, not lowering his wand or taking his eyes off Potter.

"What are you doing, Snape?" Atwater asked coldly.

"I'm trying to decide what curse to use on Potter, sir," Snape said very evenly.

"Put that wand away at once," Atwater said. "Ten points from Slytherin, and detention."

Snape just stood there a moment longer, his wand pointing at Potter.

"I said, put that away! All of you disperse. Potter, you come with me to the infirmary," Atwater said, taking Potter gently by the arm.

Potter shrugged him off and limped into the castle heroically, as his walking abilities are somehow connected to his cheek.

That night at dinner, Semele Nott felt the urge to exert her authority in the seating arrangements. For almost every meal in the last five years, I have sat in my seat. It's a very good seat, about halfway down the table, facing the rest of the room, and she only took it to prove she could. Unluckily, the only seat left was the one opposite Snape. I sat down and pretended to be very interested in my potatoes.

"Interesting how Potter tripped, isn't it?" Snape asked suddenly.

"Er, I suppose so," I said, wishing a thousand misfortunes on Semele. "Maybe he's only graceful in the air," I added lamely, because, as we all know, James Potter is a reverse Anateus.

Snape stared at me coldly for a moment, then went back to ignoring me.

I ate as quickly as I could and nearly ran out of the Great Hall. I had almost made it to the dungeons when I felt Snape's long, pale fingers curling around my arm. I was surprised at how fast he was, and how strong.

"What do you want?" he snarled.

"I beg your pardon, _you_ have a hold of _me_," I said almost as angrily as he did.

"Do you get some perverted thrill from playing the hero? Do you like feeling important, Cole? Or am I really _that_ pitiable, that you—"

"Are you listening to yourself?" I managed to twist my arm out of his grip. "If I got 'some perverted thrill from playing the hero,' don't you think my dramatic rescue would have been a tad more, I don't know…dramatic? I think a Tripping Hex falls a bit short of a one-on-one duel with the source of all evil, don't you? Maybe I hate the Marauders with a passion that burns with the fire of a thousand suns. Or maybe I think Slytherin is dishonored enough, what with Slughorn, and the Marauder's antics, if they can be called that, and the Gryffindor winning streak. Maybe I don't think we need a student being…exposed—"

"I had it under control," Snape said icily.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure you'd devised a brilliant plan to wow him with your—" I blushed and broke off. "You didn't have it under control."

He was staring at me oddly, and not just because of my comment about his plan. He seemed to make up his mind. "I owe you."

"What?"

"I owe you," he repeated very slowly, as if I were a particularly slow four-year-old.

"I heard you," I snapped. "You don't owe me anything. Anyone would have done it."

"They didn't."

"They would have. Besides, I didn't do it for you, I did it for Slytherin."

"Then I owe you on behalf of Slytherin house," he said, and strode off before I could refuse again.

"Fine!" I shouted after him. _Have it your way, then, _Snivellus. _You owe me._

I stomped down into the dungeons, through several twists, to a very ordinary looking stretch of stone wall. _"Ascendo tuum!"_ I shouted at it vehemently. I didn't stop to admire the common room. It's my favorite room in Hogwarts, with its high ceilings, misleadingly uncomfortable-looking chairs, and cool dampness. I didn't stop until I was in the fifth year girl's dormitory. As my luck would have it, Semele and her toadies, Eris and Themis, were waiting for me.

"What did Snape want?" Semele asked in her honey-sweet voice, which was good. If she already knew, her voice would have been 'sugary sweet.'

"To be my love slave," I said absently, changing into my pajamas.

Her eyes narrowed, as she is deficient of the laugh-it-off brain cell, along with most of the others. "What did you say?"

"I told him not tonight, but maybe next term."

Themis, the dimmest of the already dim trio, said, "That must have made him quite angry. Wasn't Evan mad at you for not going to his Quidditch match, Semele?"

"Evan and I are no longer together," Semele said stiffly. "I broke up with him."

"That's not what I heard," Eris said happily. "I heard that he broke up with you, and right after you invited him to your house for the summer."

"Well, whoever told you that was very mistaken."

I crawled into bed, trying to ignore the sound of their gossip, and wishing I had some one like them. Well, not like _them_, obviously, but someone who I could tease and talk to. A friend, as lame as that sounds.

I hate Wednesdays. In my five years at Hogwarts, I had never had a good Wednesday schedule. This year was no different: Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, and Divination.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was horrible. Atwater lumbered heroically through his lecture on OWLs and Gryndilows, and something about oranges, shouting to be heard over the hum of conversation. He gave up and sat down when Evans started screaming at Potter.

Potions were worse. Slughorn kept the class under control for the most part. I had to sit between the Marauders and Snape. Potter was his usual obnoxious self, making very loud comments about yesterday's events. Black threw in an occasional comment, sending Pettigrew into peals of snickering, and Lupin managed to melt another cauldron.

Snape wasn't as…aggressive in his surliness, but he wasn't very polite when he asked to borrow my beetle eyes. He, of course, got what seemed like a half-hour laudation on the consistency of his potion, and Evans got another hour on the perfect hue of her own. I…well, I didn't get a derisive snort like Semele did.

Divination wasn't with the Gryffindors, thank Merlin. It went on forever, though. Between the incense burning in the fire and Madame Waller's noxious cigarette, I thought I would swoon.

After all of that, I decided to go back to the common room and read for a spell before talking to Dumbledore. Unfortunately, I got caught up in Thurmond's struggles for goblin rights and forgot about speaking to the Headmaster.

I nearly ran out of the common room, up three flights of stairs to the Main Hall and another two to Dumbledore's office on the second floor.

"Ice Mice!" I shouted at the gargoyle. It leaped aside and I dashed up the stairs, two at a time. As the staircase curves, I didn't see Dumbledore until I had nearly knocked him over.

"Ah, Miss Cole," Dumbledore said in his normal, creepy cheerful voice. "I dare say you're in a hurry. I am afraid I am, too."

"I'll only be a minute, Professor," I said between pants. I rarely took any exercise, and that took a lot out of me. I took a deep breath and clutched the stitch in my stomach. "I was wondering if I could stay at Hogwarts for the summer holidays."

"Awfully late to be asking," Dumbledore said.

"I won't be any trouble," I promised. "You won't know I'm even here."

"You stay at a Muggle orphanage during the summer, don't you?"

"Yes, sir." A pity trip couldn't hurt.

"I don't think it would be a problem."

"Thank you, sir. I promise you won't regret it."

He smiled sagely. "Indeed. Now, if you would care to accompany me to the Great Hall?"

I walked to the Great Hall with him, beaming (only internally, though, once we entered. He may have saved me from a summer at St. Dympna's Orphanage, but that doesn't mean I can stand him).

Not content with just winning the Quidditch Cup, Gryffindor won the House Cup. Yippee. I could hardly contain my excitement.

All the houses walked (in Gryffindors case, pranced; in Slytherins', sulked) back to their respective dormitories to finish packing. I went up to the fifth year dorms and pretended to pack, just so it wouldn't raise questions. I wouldn't have minded bragging to them about staying for the holidays, but I didn't want them to get the idea of joining me. Especially not Semele.

After I finished pretending to pack and listening to Semele and Eris compare their planned vacations, I went down to the common room. Almost everyone was there. Snape and Tavish Travers were sitting next to the fire, discussing something in hushed voice. Narcissa Black was at one of the tables writing a letter; Rosier, Moon, Wilkes, Avery, and Rastaban Lestrange were in the corner talking loudly about the upcoming World Cup. I sat down next to the window into the lake and watched them.

Snape and Traver's discussion grew more and more heated until she stormed off to talk to her sister. Narcissa smiled lovingly at her letter and occasionally read bits of another. Semele, Eris, and Themis came up the stairs to the common room and cast dirty looks at the laughing boys. I wished they'd all leave.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: The author and all characters appearing in this story are fictitious and belong to JK Rowling. There is no such city as London. 

The next morning I woke up in an empty dormitory. No Semele and Eris gossiping about Rosier and Avery's gang, no Themis blithering about the upcoming Ragnorak, no Narcissa snogging a miniature portrait of her much older boyfriend. Just me and the sound of raindrops splashing against the lake's surface.

The next few days were perfect. I was all alone in the castle, save a few teachers and Dumbledore. I spent all the cool, rainy days in the common room with a book, all the warm, sultry ones in the Astronomy Tower, trying to tempt a cool breeze.

It went on like that for another two weeks, before I found I wasn't alone. The night before, I had been in the library later than usual, and had happened upon the Restricted Section. Without adult supervision, the temptation was too great. I guiltily brought my prize back to one of the table, and started in on it. It seemed harmless enough, but it was late.

I hardly slept that night. I woke up earlier the next morning than usual and skipped breakfast in favor of the library. I found my book back on the shelf I had left it and finished it in two hours.

As I finished the last page, I realized how hungry I was. I went back to the Great Hall for brunch and sitting at the Gryffindor table was a very handsome boy eating a piece of toast with an obscene amount of grape jam on it.

"What are you doing?" I demanded.

"Ahm meeming," the boy replied through his toast. He swallowed. "Who are you?"

"Lucy Cole. Why are you in here?"

The Gryffindor shrugged. "Eating on the front lawn seemed like a bad idea, and—"

"I mean, why aren't you with your parents doing—doing familial things?"

"Why aren't you?" he countered.

"I don't have parents," I said sharply.

"Then where did you come from?"

"The stork," I snapped.

He laughed, and that's when I recognized him. Sirius Black, the handsome, lazy, malicious Marauder. He stopped laughing suddenly and looked at me mock-sadly. "If you must know, my mother doesn't love me."

"Poor baby," I muttered.

"She said so last year," he said, pretending to wipe away a tear, "when she told me she never wanted to see me in her house again. She was probably just blowing steam, admittedly, but I thought _why not humor her?_ So here I am."

"I don't like you," I said. "Humor me."

He opened his mouth to say something, but I stormed off dramatically. Unfortunately, in my dramatic exit I took several wrong turns and ended up lost.

"Who do you have, Charles?" an elderly-sounding voice said from inside one of the doors.

"Dirk Creswell and Marlene McKinnon in fifth year," Atwater's voice replied, "Lily Evans and James Potter in sixth, and—"

"James Potter?" Professor Anael said. "James Potter of the bullies-for-fun-and-profit, writes-purposely-miniscule-script, chews-with-his-mouth-open fame?"

"That's the one," Atwater said drily.

"What possible prefect qualities could James Potter possess?"

At water took a deep breath as though he had been expecting this. "James would make an excellent prefect; he's a leader, popular, and I'm sure that if we gave him a chance, he would mature…"

"Didn't he turn a student upside-down two weeks ago?"

"The other boy started it!" Atwater snapped.

"Who do you have in seventh year?" Dumbledore said.

"Caradoc Dearborn for Headboy, Lauren Rodgers and John Osbourne," Atwater said.

"Any objections?" Dumbledore said.

I could hear Professor Anael, Head of Hufflepuff, grumbling, but Atwater's nominees were passed.

"And you, Horace? Who do you have?"

I could just imagine Slughorn rubbing his hands together like a fly. "Regulus Black—excellent breeding, you know, and the most polite young man I've met—and Cordelia Eldis in fifth year, Severus Snape and Lucy—"

"Severus Snape?" Atwater said obnoxiously. "Severus Snape of the picks-fights, makes-faces-while-you-teach—" he floundered for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to think of a third annoying habit "—fame."

_Very clever, Professor, but he only makes faces at you,_ I thought.

Slughorn nodded happily. "I see you've met him. As I was saying, Severus Snape and Lucy Cole in sixth year, and Tavish Travers and Pernella Clovis in seventh."

"Lucy Cole? Who on Earth is she?" Atwater asked. Perhaps I should make myself a bit better known.

"I'm not sure, myself," Slughorn answered. "She's very, er, good at not being noticed…"

Atwater wasn't impressed. "How do we know she isn't another made up name, like Seymour Wonds?"

"I know her," Dumbledore said. "Why do you think she'd be a good prefect?"

"Her O.W.L.s are the best of my fifth year girls," Slughorn said, defending himself more than me. "And, oh, you've seen the fifth year girls. Narcissa Black is a nice enough girl, but she couldn't exert authority over a dead flobberworm. I wouldn't trust the other three with the badge…"

"Any objections?" Dumbledore asked again.

"No to Snape," Atwater said. "I won't complain about what's-her-name, I won't even complain about Pernella Clovis, but Severus Snape will not be a prefect!"

"No objections," Professor Anael said sweetly.

"I don't like the looks of Snape," Flitwick said nervously.

"Ha! There's a tie, Dumbledore; it's your call. Is Snape a prefect or not?" Atwater demanded.

Dumbledore sighed. "Who else do you have in sixth year, Horace?"

I walked off, disgusted, at that point. Snape adored Dumbledore and was the Slytherin who could stand him! And this is how Dumbledore pays him back, by sentencing him to a year of being lorded over by James Bloody Potter?

I stomped off to the library, having regained my sense of direction, and found the book I had been reading earlier: _Bloode Curses of the Darke Arts._

I was rereading chapter eight (_Curses Involving Kinshippe_) when Dumbledore walked in and sat down at the table I was reading at. I leaned over my book, trying as subtly as I could to cover the title.

"Good day, Miss Cole," Dumbledore said cheerfully. "What are you reading?"

"Oh, er, nothing, it's, um…"

He reached over and opened the book to the title page. His smile slowly melted. He glanced up at me and then reread the title.

"This is a Dark Arts book," he said quietly.

_No, sir, by 'Darke Arts', the author means painting without light,_ I thought.

"Yes, sir," I said, forcing regret into my voice. That was my usual strategy on the rare occasions got in trouble: agree with everything they say, unless you can think of a plausible story, and toss around the word 'sir' a lot. I hadn't had much of a chance to try it at Hogwarts, but it always worked at the orphanage.

"Go to your dorm and pack," he said. "I'll have the train take you home tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," I said with genuine remorse. I managed to force that out of my mind by the time I got out of the library, and replace it with mutterings on censorship.

Too my credit, I was very calm as I packed my trunk, and I slept very soundly that night. I woke up to Slughorn knocking lightly on the door early the next morning.

"The train leaves in an hour," he said from the other side of the heavy oak door.

I rolled out of bed and dressed deliberately slowly, just to show them I didn't care about their little time restraints (and I'm very sure they counted the minutes). I ate my breakfast as dignified as a condemned queen, although I very much doubt any condemned queens were served cold cereal.

I was on the train for half an hour before I started to cry. It was really quiet, and sat there waiting for the snack lady to come by, then I thought, _She isn't coming. You aren't going home for the holidays; you're being sent home._ I started to cry, thinking of all sorts of horrible and unlikely situations. They were going to expel me, snap my wand in two, and throw me out of the Wizarding World. After several minutes of hysterical crying, doubling at each horrible situation I imagined, I got a hold of myself. Surely they didn't expel sixteen-year-old girls for reading the wrong books, and if they did, I could manage. I'd just wait until I came to my majority, take all those Galleons and such I had saved from my annual school fund to a Muggle banker. He'd give me a pretty sum, and I could live comfortably for the rest of my life.

I went into the bathroom and washed my face, continuing with these reassuring thoughts. Besides, who needs Dumbledore and Atwater and the Marauder and Evans? I wouldn't give a Knut for the lot of them.

I was quite pleased with myself when I got off the train and flagged down the Knight Bus. I even grinned back at the peach-fuzzed conductor.

I didn't bother to knock on the door of the orphanage. No one ever did, and as much as she complained about it, Mrs. Howard didn't mind. The Young Ladies Dormitory was to the left of the game room at the top of the stairs, and held about fifteen beds. Seven were lined up against one wall, with a wide shelf above them. Another seven beds were on the shelf, and one bed stuck out oddly next to the landing of the stairs.

I sat down on my bed and read some more of _Burning Times: A Goblin's Account of 1667._ Not as provocative as _Bloode Curses of the Dark Arts_, but the only thing I had on hand. Just as Uroff the Uncouth began the siege of Hogsmeade, Mrs. Howard came into the room unannounced, leading a couple.

"As you can see, I'm afraid all of the girls are on a vacation in the south," she said to the couple. She glanced at me, and quickly added, "Except for Lucy, who only just got back from a very exclusive boarding school."

"What are you reading, young lady?" the man asked loudly. He was a very tall man, with thinning brown hair and incredibly large hands.

I smiled sweetly and considered telling him, er, something naughty. "A historical novel."

"Very studious," the short, squat woman whispered to him.

"Not bad looking, either," the man replied, not bothering to keep his voice down. He turned to Mrs. Howard. "When can we take her?"

Mrs. Howard was caught off guard. "Five o'clock, I suppose?"

The man nodded and turned sharply to leave.

"No!" I half-shouted. This was unbelievable. Un-bloody-believable.

"Fine, we'll be here at six," the man said with finality, and strode out of the room.

"That was…sudden," Mrs. Howard said.

The ride to their home, despite being relatively close to St. Dympna's, was very long and very awkward. They owned a very cramped little car, and put me in the backseat. I wouldn't have minded, if only were the size of a very small dog.

"Who are you?" I asked them, not very politely.

"I am Mr. Meadowes, my wife is Mrs. Meadowes."

I was quite relieved that they didn't expect me to call them 'Mum' and 'Dad.' That would have been very awkward.

The rest of the half-hour drive was very quiet. We finally arrived at Budleigh Babberton, a tiny village of dollhouses and well manicured lawns. We stopped at the blue-trimmed dollhouse with the very bright magenta flowers.

"Your room's the last door on the left," Mrs. Meadowes said in her most simpering voice.

I forced a smile and went into that room. I nearly gagged before I made it to the desk, took out a piece of parchment, ink, and a quill. I sat there for a moment trying to think of who to write. No one in my dorm, of course. The girls at the orphanage wouldn't understand. Snape said he owed me. This probably wasn't what he had in mind, but I was desperate.

_Dear Severus Snape,_

_You said you owed me, so I decided to write you. I don't need you to do anything; I just wanted someone to write to. You can burn this letter now; I just need to send it to someone._

_I am writing to you from a white desk, covered in pink stenciled hearts. (No, the desk is covered in pink stenciled hearts. I can just see you snickering at that.) It is in the center of a pink room. The carpet is pink, the walls are pink, the tables are pink, you get the idea._

_I've been adopted. My parents aren't dead, I think, but I've been at an orphanage for most of my life. It's not a big deal; no sympathy is required. No sympathy for that, at least, though I do expect an outpouring of pity because of the Muggles I'm staying with._

_They are worse than the room, despite not being pink. (Well, the Mrs. Meadowes is a bit pink, and rather fond of wearing the colour, but that's not important.) Mr. Meadowes is part ape, I believe. He's brusque, pompous, and has hands that look better fit for peeling bananas than banking. Mrs. Meadowes is the most simperingly annoying woman I've met, and if I heard her correctly, intends on bonding with me while cooking. Taking into account my last attempt to cook, I'm tempted to send a muffin or something to the Marauders._

_Humbly awaiting your sympathy_

Lucy Cole


End file.
